


I Stand Amid the Roar

by Milee_Cosgrove



Series: Circles [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Humor, Deleted Scenes, F/M, Felassan lives!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 22:47:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13421235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milee_Cosgrove/pseuds/Milee_Cosgrove
Summary: The Dread Wolf has returned after over a year of no contact, with a cat and a human woman.And Felassan is still not dead.Honestly, he is not sure which one of these statements is the most absurd.





	I Stand Amid the Roar

**Author's Note:**

> So when I was writing Walking in Circles, there were a few scenes that occurred while Evelyn was tranquil. They didn’t quite fit the pacing or the mood of the fic itself, but I kept them. And I’ve decided to post them as sort of a “deleted scenes” thing. Because in the Circles Verse, Felassan lives.
> 
> I hope this makes up for the ridiculously long time in between chapter updates.

The Dread Wolf returns.

Which means, for all intents and purposes, Felassan’s life is over.

He has no doubt about this. He failed—no, he did worse than fail. He deliberately failed.

The Dread Wolf will see that as a betrayal. And it is.

But there are worse things to die for than principle.

He could have run. In the last few months, there was doubt as to whether the Wolf would ever return to his agents. Felassan had plenty of chances to escape, to make his own way in the world. He might have done it; spent ages doggedly sleeping in fits and bursts, guarding his dreams, keeping a wary eye on his own shadow in case it turned into the form of a six-eyed wolf.

Such actions were dishonorable, though, and Felassan scorned them.

Also, it sounded _exhausting._

So here he remained, awaiting the day that the Wolf would return and claim his life.

The Dread Wolf ventures into temple. He looks much the same—shaven head, staff strapped to his back. His clothes are different: finer, in the style of the Free Marches, if Felassan is correct. Mage’s robes. But this is not what makes Felassan let out a grunt of surprise.

No—that honor belongs to the human woman trailing in the Wolf’s wake.

She is dark-haired and small, and easily overlooked. Her expression is oddly mild, as if nothing in this camp might surprise her. Her gaze slides over the temple walls, taking in the golden tapestries and finery, and she does not even blink.

Fen’Harel hands a traveling pack to one of the servants, speaking quietly enough that Felassan does not hear. But then the Wolf’s eyes sweep upward, alighting on Felassan. “Walk with me,” he says.

So this is it.

Their steps ring out on the polished floors, and the torches cast a merry light. Felassan wonders vaguely if perhaps he should walk farther from the tapestries, so his blood will not stain them.

“Has my absence been remarked upon?” asks the Wolf, in the old tongue.

Felassan considers his answer. “It has been a year, my lord.”

“I am aware.”

“Of course your absence has been remarked upon. Theories have been bandied about as easily as drinks—and many of them cobbled together over those drinks.”

“Yet the cause remains.”

Felassan feels the corners of his mouth twitch. “Belief does not lessen over time. Not if it’s true.”

And most of these elves do believe. Not only in the Dread Wolf, but in a better world. One where their kind might live free.

Their path takes them down a hall, to one of the inner sanctuaries. Felassan glances over his shoulder; the human woman trails behind, seemingly uncaring of the conversation she cannot understand.

“Do you have the passcodes?” asks the Wolf.

Felassan hesitates only a moment. “No.”

A heartbeat passes, and then another. Fen’Harel is clever; he knows that if Felassan failed, he did so on purpose.

“Why,” he finally says. He turns the question in a heavy statement, a pronouncement.

Felassan smiles, just a bit. “I could not take them.”

“You could have.”

“I will not take the codes from her.” The passcode would have been freely given—had almost been given. He’d pressed his finger to Briala’s lips before she could speak them, because he was not to be trusted. He hopes she has been using the eluvians well. Felassan takes a breath and says the words he know will damn himself. “They’re people, my lord. Stronger than you know. They are not lesser for their shorter lifespan. And I would give them a chance.”

Fen’Harel stops walking.

The silence is taut. Felassan breathes, one measured breath after another, and waits for the blow to fall.

He will take it—and gladly. For the young woman with the burning dark eyes. For all the good she might do.

Fen’Harel speaks, and his voice is very soft. “You betrayed our cause.”

Felassan nods. There is nothing more to say.

But rather than strike, Fen’Harel turns and looks to the human. “What do you think?” He says the words in the common tongue. “Should I kill him?”

The woman stands with her arms wrapped around something. At first, Felassan thinks it is a bag of some sort, but when it moves, he realizes that it’s an animal. A cat, if he’s not mistaken. And for some reason, focusing on that small absurdity makes him almost smile.

“Why do you wish to kill him?” the woman asks.

Fen’Harel’s gaze rests lightly on the woman. “He betrayed me.”

The woman remains still, even as the cat struggles to be free of her. Her arms loosen and the cat leaps onto her shoulder, sniffing at her hair. “Will he do so again?”

“He came here, expecting to die,” says the Wolf. “So likely not.”

The woman gazes at Felassan. There is something unnerving in her face; she is statue-still, her skin unnaturally pale, and her eyes are oddly opaque. He cannot read her. 

“Killing him would be wasteful,” she says. “Alive, he may still help you. Dead, he is useless.”

Felassan blinks.

“Even now, you seek mercy,” the Wolf murmurs. And a flash of pain travels over his face. He closes his eyes, then says, “Bring fresh water, clothes, and a meal. Something for her to wear that is clean. A cot, as well. My quarters have only one bed.”

Surely not. Surely—

“Aren’t you going to kill me?” asks Felassan, just a touch incredulous.

Fen’Harel turns away. “A year ago, I would have.” He places a hand at the human’s back, gently guiding her toward one of the tents. “Come, vhenan,” he murmurs. And he helps the young woman into his personal quarters, shutting the door quietly behind them both.

_Vhenan._

The Dread Wolf has returned after over a year of no contact, with a cat and a human woman.

And Felassan is still not dead.

Honestly, he is not sure which one of these statements is the most absurd.

* * *

A week passes.

Since the Dread Wolf’s return, there has been a flurry of action. Orders sent out, spies debriefed, information gathered and plans made. The orb remains in Fen’Harel’s possession and he seems distracted by his attempts to unlock it. He spent much of himself on the Veil, Felassan knows, and he has yet to regain much of his power.

When he leaves his quarters, he often takes the woman with him. She follows a step behind, gaze sliding over the camp and its inhabitants, seemingly unaware of the glares she attracts.

 _Shem._ The word is said without speaking—it is conveyed in every glance, every frown. Yet she is under Fen’Harel’s protection, and that makes her untouchable.

On the eighth day, Felassan finds her in the kitchens. She is looking through the herb stores. Every movement slow but deliberate, as if no energy is ever wasted on a frivolous gesture.

When she realizes she is being watched, the woman looks at him.

“Felassan,” she says. Her voice is oddly level. “I have heard the others call you that.”

Without knowing truly why, Felassan gives her a little bow. The kind he might have offered Briala—half mockery, and half good-natured amusement. “And yet I still do not know your name. Seems rather impolite of me, not to know the name of the woman who pled for my life.”

She does not frown. Nor does she smile. “I did not plead,” she replies. “I merely pointed out—”

That is when he understands. The shock of it makes his smile drop away—because he knows what she is. He has seen her kind in the market, selling the Chantry’s wares, gazes empty and voices toneless.

“You’re one of the tranquil,” he says.

The woman inclines her head. “I am Evelyn Trevelyan.” Then she goes back to looking through the herbs. 

He considers leaving, but all of the other elves avoid her. He takes an almost perverse pleasure in doing the opposite. 

“What are you looking for?”

Her hands go still on a jar. She puts it down. “Mint,” she says vaguely.

“For tea?”

“…Yes.” But she sounds uncertain. If a tranquil can be uncertain.

Felassan leans against the table, arms crossed, watching her. She wears a simple tunic and leggings; her mouth is unpainted and she wears no jewelry. 

Well, except for the wolf’s jawbone hanging from her throat. 

A claim, more than an adornment. 

And that in itself is the strangest thing of all. That Fen’Harel would bring a shemlen into his company. A tranquil one, at that. 

“A human,” he says aloud. “A tranquil human.”

“I prefer ‘Evelyn.’”

He might have laughed, were she not utterly serious.

“How did you even meet Fen’Harel?”

“I did not know him as Fen’Harel, then,” she replies. “Only as Solas. We met at the Ostwick Circle of Magi. It was in the midst of an uprising that I was taken captive and made tranquil. It was a punishment for defending myself.”

His face goes still. “Oh. I am sorry.”

“There is nothing to be sorry about,” she says. Her voice is flat, and he wonders for a moment what she sounded like before they changed her. 

“What is it like being tranquil?” he asks.

She gazes at him. “I—do not know how to answer that question.” She tilts her head. “What is it like being an elf?”

He considers the question. “At the moment, exhausting. And just a little exasperating.”

Evelyn Trevelyan finds the jar of dried mint leaves. She holds it between her hands, gazing at the glass.

“How exactly did you manage to catch his attention?” he asks.

She appears to consider it. “I believe it was because I hid his necklace, forced him to drink tea, and then I pleasured him in an empty classroom.”

Fen’Harel walks into the kitchens to find Felassan laughing so hard he has fallen to his knees. Evelyn stands there, the jar of mint in hand, staring at the elf in mild confusion.

“You know what?” says Felassan, grinning, “I’ve decided I’m going to like having her around.”

* * *

 

_Two Years After_

He sees her in the Graves. 

He is among the spies sent to find smuggling routes through the forests. The taint of red lyrium cannot be allowed to remain here, and many a grueling day has been spent tracking templars with crystal spikes for eyes and nails crusted with crimson. It is hard work, but it must be done. 

Evening is falling; the trees cast long shadows over moss and fern. Felassan walks soundlessly through the forest, and something flickers on the edge of his vision. He does not run, rather, he eases into one of the shadows. Figures move on a nearby hilltop, striding along a narrow path. A Qunari, an young elven woman with ragged clothes and a bow, and with a jolt, Felassan recognizes the elf with the shaven head and wolf’s pelt drawn over one shoulder. And walking beside him, fingers entwined with his—

She looks different. Her back is straighter, her gaze sharp. There is a staff on her back and a map in her hand. And she is smiling.

He has never seen her smile before. 

And somehow, he thinks it wasn’t the empty classroom that drew the Dread Wolf’s attention. 


End file.
